


Disposable

by NuttersandAcorn (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mild Gore, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/NuttersandAcorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft won't supply information, and at a cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disposable

**Author's Note:**

> Not too fond of this one, but I had to write something today. So here.

The cell was small and putrid with the smells of waste and mold. The only bed, if one could even call it that, was a soiled mattress positioned on a creaky iron frame. No blankets, no pillow. The only thing that could be considered a loo was a bucket in the way corner that was changed out twice a day, once at nine in the morning and another at nine in the evening. The food was stale: bread hard; water musty; and most of it couldn't be kept down half the time. It was delivered at seven in the morning and seven at night sharp, and taken back thirty minutes later. When the prisoner was not sleeping, he was tortured with whips and choked; his skin was bruised, burned, scarred, and cuts littered the bare parts of his skin. He had come into imprisonment two months before in a posh suit and harsh attitude. Now, his clothes were torn and dirty beyond belief as they had never given him new clothes, and his attitude was harsher than ever.

Today was going to be the last day of living in that cell. Last day of living with the stink, the crampedness  and bad food.

Of course, Mycroft didn't know that.

It all seemed to go... strange, weird, whatever one might call it two months, three days and seven hours after his capture. Like usual, around six, Mycroft was thrown back into his little home for supper.

The thing was, it was clean. New mattress, scrubbed-out toilet bucket, and his food was an hour early (mashed potatoes and gravy, a luxury . Just like it had been when he had first got here. Was it true? Where they finally going to release him? He could go back to Sherlock, tell him everything he had deduced during his stay, and the web would be taken down faster than they had ever predicted.

The potatoes were divine. Too bad he had to eat them slowly, and he still couldn't eat all of it. It was too rich. Talk about a  _diet_. They had even given him wine. How delightful.

He had just stretched out on the bed when he was suddenly yanked out of it and dragged out of the cell with a force that left him dizzy. He shook his head. "What is going on here?"

"We are not stupid," the man dragging him replied, his accent thick with French. "You know things."

"I do not! Do you take me out as the kind of man to be able to deduce like my brother?" He kicked, but to no avail. A diet of bread and water makes a man weak.

There was no immediate reply. He thrusted Mycroft to his knees in the middle of a medium-sized room; his hands behind his back and his eyes covered by a cloth. A sinking feeling came over Mycroft as he realized the true situation. "You are smarter than Sherlock," came the long-awaited reply. "You know too much. We must not let that happen."

Mycroft sat there. It was all he could do, really. "Fine, kill me. You'll get nothing out of it. No money, no 'special privileges'. No information about my brother."

"We can do without that."

He couldn't see when the blade was raised near his neck. All he knew of what its destination.


End file.
